Living Alone eBook

The ferryman said: “If the King of England—­why,
if the two ghosts of Queen Victoria and Albert the
Good—­was waiting to cross now, I wouldn’t
come in for them, not if it was going to give you a
chance to set foot on Mitten Island.”

The crowd across the river, divining that a climax
of defiance was being reached, shouted: “Yah,
yah,” in unison.

“Is either of you parties an ’ouse’older
on Mitten Island?” asked the policeman of Sarah
Brown and Richard.

“I am,” said Richard, to his companion’s
surprise.

“Can you give me any information regarding the
whereabouts of a cherecter known under any of these
names: Iris ’Yde, T.B. Watkins, Hangela
the Witch, possibly a male in female disguise, believed
to conduct a general shop and boardin’ ’ouse
on Mitten Island?”

“There is only one shop on Mitten Island,”
said Richard. “And one boarding house.
All in one. I own it. I can recite you the
prospectus if you like. I have a superintendent
there. I have known her all my life. I did
not know she was believed to be a male in female disguise.
I did not know she had any name at all, let alone
half-a-dozen.”

The policeman seemed to be troubled all the time by
mosquitoes. He slapped his face and his ears
and the back of his neck. He succeeded in killing
one insect upon the bridge of his nose, and left it
there by mistake, a strangely ignoble corpse.
Sarah Brown suspected Richard of some responsibility
for this untimely persecution.

“That party is charged with an offence against
the Defence of the Realm Act,” said the policeman,—­“with
being, although a civilian, in possession of a flying
machine, and—­er—­obstructin’
’Is Majesty’s enemies in the performance
of their dooty.”

“Oh deah, deah,” said Richard. “Deah,
deah, deah....”

“Do either of you know the present whereabouts
of the party?” persisted the policeman.
Attacked on every side by insects, he was becoming
rather pathetic in his discomfort and indignity.
His small eyes, set in red fat, stared with uncomprehending
protest; his fat busy hands were not agile enough
to defend him. He felt unsuccessful and foolish,
and very near the ground. He wished quite disproportionately
to be at home with his admiring wife in Acton.

Sarah Brown shook her head in reply, and Richard could
say nothing but “Oh deah, deah....”

“May I take your name and ’ome address,
and regimental number, please, young man,” said
the policeman, after a baffled pause.

“Now my address,” said Richard, with genuine
shame, “is a thing I honestly can never remember.
I know I’ve heard it; I’ve tried and tried
to learn it at my mother’s knee. It begins
with an H, I think. That’s the worst of
not being able to read or write. I can describe
the place to you exactly, a house with a lot of windows,
that sees a long way. If you turn your back on
the Marble Arch, and go on till you get to a big poster
saying Eat Less Meat, and then turn to your right—­(pointing
to the left)—­or again, if you go by air
as the crow flies—­or rather as the witch
flies——­”